


Faking Glory

by heather_in_hell



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Angst, Mention of Eating Disorders, Other, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6779983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heather_in_hell/pseuds/heather_in_hell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her closet is mostly red now. Her green clothing lay in a pile in the corner. She can’t bring herself to throw them away.</p><p>Heather Duke's perspective after she becomes Westerberg's new queen bee and a look at her relationship with Veronica.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faking Glory

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings for Heather Duke. She's an underrated character and I think she's similar to Veronica in many ways. I feel like they could've been good friends if they worked on overcoming their differences, and I think Veronica would've forgiven her. As much as I love Heathers the Musical, I was disappointed with Duke's characterization in it. The movie gave her a lot of depth and the musical reduced her to a bitchy girl from the very beginning, so this is mostly based on her movie characterization, with the occasional musical Duke popping in every now and then. Also, the title is a lyric from "Bravado" by Lorde, a song that reminds me a lot of Duke. *Shameless plug!! Here's a Heather Duke playlist I made if any of you are interested: http://8tracks.com/bluej18/jealous-much

Heather surrounds herself with unknowns – popular and attractive unknowns, but still unknowns. It’s been about a month since the Heathers unofficially disbanded, although a part of her wonders if they were ever really “together” once Veronica joined. Or at all, really.

She doesn’t talk to McNamara anymore, can barely look her in the eye when they pass each other in the halls. Heather's technically the new queen bee at Westerberg; promoted from follower to so-called leader, and yet she can’t even reign upon the people she once formed a high school clique with.

Perhaps she feels guilty about treating McNamara so harshly. But she had to. She needed to establish herself as in charge. She’s good at pretending she doesn’t hurt; she did it all the time when Heather was alive. If only she had the same amount of apathy.

The unknowns – Heather’s new “followers” – consist of cheerleaders and other rich and pretty girls. She knows McNamara and Veronica hang out a lot now. JD blowing himself to smithereens appeared to have brought some people at Westerberg closer, but not Heather. She suspected the faux tears and sappy togetherness to wear off in a few months.

That’s how things worked at their school – people cared for a millisecond, or at least pretended to, and then came a distraction to make everyone forget and move onto the next big thing.

She drops a book one day in the hall and Veronica just so happens to be the one who stops and picks it up for her. They make uncomfortable eye contact, saying nothing, and Heather grabs it and leaves. They’re not friends anymore. Heather doesn’t think they ever were.

 

* * *

 

 

Boys, the amount of boys they hooked up with over the weekend, whether perms are pretty or ugly, diets – these are the kinds of things she talks about with her new “friends”. She supposes it’s the same things she used to talk about with the Heathers, except this time there’s no one who shouts “Shut up, Heather!” Her body tightens on instinct to prepare for it after everything she says anyway. Heather Chandler left her mark.

 

* * *

 

 

Her closet is mostly red now. Her green clothing lay in a pile in the corner. She can’t bring herself to throw them away.

 

* * *

 

 

Why did Heather have to like Veronica more than her? Why did she have to invite her into _their_ group? Veronica read just as much as she did, got similar high grades…but it seemed like everything she did was just one step behind Veronica. She’s wittier, bolder, even has a fucking better fashion sense, and _they_ were the ones who made her over from nerdy floral dresses and oversized denim jackets to preppy and clean. Veronica could apply the Heathers brand to her life and change it into something else.

And Heather hates it. Why is she always fucking coming in second place?

 

* * *

 

 

She’s touching up her lipstick – red – in the bathroom mirror one day, not caring if she’s going to be late for class, because popular girls didn’t need to worry about those kinds of things.

She hears the door swing open. “Cute lipstick shade.”

She glances to her right in the mirror and sees the periwinkle blue cardigan and short, dark hair. Veronica doesn’t say it sarcastically like she’s trying to pick a fight. Heather knows Veronica can be bitchy, but she was ever one to start petty, catty fights. Still, her body tenses and she averts her eyes back to her own reflection, not responding.

“So,” Veronica says, “how’re the new friends treating you?”

Her lipstick pauses in the middle of her bottom lip. “Fine. How’s the dead boyfriend treating you?”

She doesn’t expect to be so harsh, but her guard is always up when she sees Veronica. She notices Veronica stiffen in the corner of her eye, almost as if she’s been pinched, but she defensively crosses her arms. “Just fine, thanks. Long distance relationships are hard, but we manage.”

“Whatever,” Heather says, and caps the lipstick, shoving it into her purse.

“He wasn’t my boyfriend, by the way,” Veronica says. “Not at that time, anyway.”

“Do you need something?” Heather snaps. “Did you just come in here to taunt me?”

Veronica raises an eyebrow. “Um, I wasn’t aware that I was taunting you in the first place?”

“Don’t try to act all innocent, alright?” Heather bites, but it comes out somewhat like a plea. “I know you think I’m some pathetic, washed up bitch. I know you just want to make fun of me because I’ll never replace Heather, or whatever. But I don’t have to be treated like shit by my own friends anymore.”

She doesn’t know why she says all this. Maybe she wants to beat Veronica to it, or maybe she just needs the words to be said aloud.

Veronica uncrosses her arms and looks at her in the mirror. “I think what you said says a lot more about what you think than what I think.”

Veronica leaves. Heather stares at herself in the mirror, and she has the urge to puke her guts out.

 

* * *

 

 Her emerald green scrunchie looks nice with her complexion. She ties it in her hair before falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

She has a similar bathroom run-in with McNamara a few days later, and the coincidence is almost comical. Of course, out of all the people to walk in on her, it _has_ to be Veronica and Heather.

She’s trying her best to tame a stray hair when Heather asks “do you have an extra tampon?” in a quiet voice.

Heather pulls one out of her purse and hands it to her. A quick “thanks” is muttered and she’s in and out of the stall before Heather’s done with her hair.The familiar blonde ponytail and black and red cheerleading uniform paired with her small presence and awkwardly turned-in knees annoy Heather just by looking at her, but she also feels a pang of something else, something sad and stinging.

Heather’s looking at the tiled floors, leaning against one of the stall doors, facing Heather’s direction. “Sometimes I felt like it was you and me against Heather,” she says. “She was in charge, but we stuck together, you know? It was kind of fun.”

 _No,_ Heather thinks, _It wasn’t._ McNamara would never understand how it felt to be belittled by Heather Chandler every day over the smallest, most insignificant things. Sure, she yelled at everyone, but no one got it as bad as Heather did. Heather McNamara was the cute blonde cheerleader whom everyone adored. She was mean on Heather Chandler’s command and was on her good side most of the time, never soliciting unnecessary insults.

“Yeah,” is all Heather can say. She gives up on the stray hair and just decides to pull it back with her red scrunchie.

She notices Heather staring at it in the mirror. “I miss you sometimes, you know,” she says. “What you did to me still sucked, though.”

“We made fun of _everyone_ , Heather,” Heather says, becoming fed up with these damn bathroom guilt trips. “Everyone. The whole school. You never felt bad about doing any of that. Only when you got a taste of it yourself.”

McNamara returns her stare back to the floor at Heather’s words. She says nothing more before exiting.

Heather actually feels pretty good at what she said. She didn’t even say it to intentionally crush McNamara’s spirit. She was simply stating facts. Still, a part of what McNamara said was true: she always silently supported her when Heather attacked her. Whether it was a small rub on her back or a reassuring smile, she never joined in on Heather’s taunts.

Heather leaves the bathroom with all her bravado gone.

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn’t feel like eating anything. She’s not throwing up her food, but mostly because there’s nothing to throw up. She just isn’t hungry all that much anymore. Whether it’s a result of the constant discussions of dieting surrounding her or because of her loneliness, she doesn’t know.

 

* * *

 

 

She’s lonely. She’s finally admitted it to herself.

 

* * *

 

She catches Veronica after school one day sitting on the steps at the front of the school, scribbling something down in that diary she’s always carrying. Heather used to watch her write things down all the time when they were in the Heathers. She always seems to wear a particular emotion on her face when she writes. Heather wonders if it’s the same emotion she’s transferring to the pages of her diary.

“Hi,” Heather says.

Veronica looks up, visibly taken by surprise that Heather’s speaking to her. “Hi.”

Heather looks down at her shoes, kicks away a small leaf that’s blown onto her shoes. “Wanna do something?”

It’s evident that Veronica wants to question her motives, but she simply shuts her diary and rises from the steps slowly, almost as if proceeding with caution. “Okay.”

Their muscle memory guides them to Veronica’s house without having to say anything. Her backyard was always the best for playing croquet, which was all they did with the Heathers.

“I don’t even play this on my own time,” Veronica says once they arrive at her house. “I only got it when I became, uh, friends with you guys.”

She snatches the blue mallet and lines it up with the matching ball. The other coloured mallets and balls are resting in the grass. They look like they haven’t been touched in weeks, and they most likely haven’t considering everything that’s happened in this short amount of time.

“I’m guessing you want red?” Veronica says with a small smirk. Heather should be annoyed, but she’s resigned from the spiteful remarks for the day.

“I really don’t care,” Heather sighs. “It’s just a fucking mallet. It doesn’t matter the colour.”

Veronica stares at her, and Heather pretends not to notice as she fixes her own gaze down at the grass. Veronica drops her mallet and walks away, out of her backyard to the front of the house. When she returns, she has a plain brown mallet in her hands.

“Here,” she says, handing it to Heather. “It came with the kit, but I figured it wasn’t snazzy enough for our royal court.”

Heather stares at the outstretched hand with chipped navy blue nail polish holding the mallet out to her. She remembers Veronica’s hand slapping her in the face when she told her about Martha Dumptruck’s failed suicide attempt, and her hand cupping the side of her head to kiss her cheek and pull the red scrunchie from her hair. She wants to laugh at the peace offering presented to her with the same hand. If this were an English class, Heather would be analyzing the shit out of this.

“Thanks,” Heather says, taking it.

Moments of silence pass while Veronica lines her mallet up with the ball. “I sort of hate my new friends,” Heather says.

Veronica looks up and doesn’t swing. She brings the mallet up and rests it horizontally behind her neck and across her shoulders, the improper but very Veronica way of holding a mallet. “I sort of figured,” she mimics.

Heather shrugs. “I didn’t love hanging out with you guys either. No offense. But now isn’t any better."

“Why do you hang out with them?” Veronica asks.

“Because,” Heather replies in a tone that makes it sound like the answer to that question should be obvious, “that’s the natural order of things. Heather’s gone, our group is gone, you move on and find new people.”

“Sounds kind of ineffective,” Veronica says. “To go out and expect to obtain something just because of what you used to be.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Heather asks, genuinely looking for an answer.

“Well, for one, you don’t have to be such a bitch,” says Veronica. Heather gives her a dirty look, but she knows it’s not a false statement.

“I’m just saying,” Veronica continues, “It doesn’t have to be the natural order of things to sprout back into Heather Chandler’s place. You don’t have to put up with her bullshit anymore.”

“I kind of feel like I do,” Heather says in a quiet voice. She can barely look at Veronica. She has no idea why she feels so insecure around her. The way Veronica spoke just didn’t sound like a normal teenage girl. It sounded like she didn’t care if her wit didn’t make sense to others, like she knew her words would one day manage to get her out of Sherwood. It both fascinated and bothered her.

Veronica moves closer to her. It’s an awkward distance, but Heather’s glad she at least didn’t try to hug her. “I get it,” she says. She’s not sure if Veronica truly does, but she lets her talk anyway. “Trust me. I feel like she’s nagging in my ear _all_ the time. So, yeah. Maybe we’re bitchy. But I don’t think it has to be like that all the time. At least, not intentionally. Not to forge love notes and give them to those deemed unworthy, or to spread three-way rumours around school.”

Heather nods. She knows neither of them are optimists. But Veronica can see clearer than Heather, and it allows her to not cling to tightly to anything in high school. The red scrunchie in her hair suddenly feels too tight, like it’s pulling back her scalp to show as much of her face to the world as possible.

She sees Veronica smiling at her. Not a forced cheery one in an attempt to make her feel better, but a small, knowing one.

The rest of the croquet game goes on, albeit with more talking and even laughing than croquet-ing itself, and midway through, Heather takes the scrunchie out of her hair. Her long dark locks feel nice framing her face. It’s how she’s always liked to wear it; using her hair as a curtain to pull back and draw as she pleases.

“I kind of hate croquet,” Heather says after a while. “I don’t know why it’s considered a sport.”

“I’m hungry,” Veronica announces, letting her mallet drop to the ground. “Let’s get a snack. I have Pâté, or _liverwurst_ as Heather once called it.”

Heather smiles. “I mean, we can call it Pâté. Your secret’s safe with me.”

They’re not best friends forever by any means, but Heather sits at the kitchen table with Veronica and actually eats the crackers and Pâté. It’s not the best thing she’s ever eaten, but she enjoys it.


End file.
